


Don't Gamble (What You Can't Afford to Lose)

by Maraceles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:39:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maraceles/pseuds/Maraceles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short list of Sam's problems in high school:  1.  Being a Virgin-Lips.  2.  Sweaty boys and basketball.  3.  Dean.</p><p>(originally posted on lj)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The fic below was written for [](http://kelleigh.livejournal.com/profile)[**kelleigh**](http://kelleigh.livejournal.com/) 's prompt in the [](http://salt-burn-porn.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://salt-burn-porn.livejournal.com/)**salt_burn_porn** community, that prompt being "losing the bet". (A 24-hour challenge, please note. Beta-ing, it is nonexistent.)

NOW

 

 

Sam looked through the front window as he waited for Dean to come home.

The door was open to let in a cool breeze--Montana wasn’t hot so much as it was bright in the summer, but the indoors were stuffy without the fresh air. Their current rental didn’t have an air conditioning unit, as was usual for a place so far north; Sam had no idea about the heating system, as they hadn’t needed to use it. Dad had not, of course, let them live there long enough to experience the winter.

One of these days, Sam thought, he would learn to appreciate the cold.

The driveway was a long, winding affair; it ran down the gently sloping hillside overlooking the city of Butte. The view was beautiful, some would say gorgeous, but Sam was perverse--he preferred the vista outside of the city. Butte was a charming little town surrounded by breathtaking mountains, and as majestic as those mountains were, the outlaying countryside was open, unconfined. There were miles upon miles of hot blue sky, rolling white clouds, the swaying whisper of green-brown grassland, and a person could feel lost in all of that space...

Where there was nothing but freedom.

Nothing but emptiness.

Sam tore his eyes away from the window. Almost despite himself, his eyes instead fell on the duffel bag slumped by his feet. A familiar sight, and a newly terrifying one. He didn't want to use the bag, and wasn't that a futile sort of thought? He’d always been an idealistic fool, always believed that hope sprung eternal--because always, everywhere, there was Dean. Dean, who would never let him use the bag, who would hate everything it meant. Dean, who would never let him need it.

Dean wasn't the problem.

Sam shook his head. There was nothing for it; it was now or never. He would collect every precious memory while he still had the time, while he still had the chance, and then Dean would be home.

:::::

 

THEN

 

Thirteen years old.

He was walking down the corridors of the school, this eight-room number that had maybe a hundred and fifty kids. It totally sucked because the town was damned small and the school even smaller, which meant that everyone already knew each other. It made Sam’s business this fucking fascinating thing to everyone.

The upside was that the school was one of those combined elementary, middle, and high school gigs. Dean was in the classroom just down the hall. Sam saw him almost hourly; they passed each other in the corridors between classes, and they hung out during study hall, recess, and lunch.

“Hey," a light, high voice said next to him. "Have you seen it?"

Sam looked up from his book, and yeah, okay, walking down the hall with his nose in it was the kind of thing that could earn him some snickering from the other students. But it was amazing what a calmly-flipped middle finger could do. “Hey,” Sam said absently. "Seen what?"

“Really?" Jenny said, laughing as she pointed to the walls. "I mean, the posters!”

“Campaign posters?” Sam blinked at her. Jenny wasn't his only friend in the place, but barring Dean, she was his best friend. He didn't know her very well, but she seemed to like him, she laughed a lot, and hey, beggars couldn't be choosers, anyway.

Sam looked around, following her waving fingers. “Yeah, so?”

“Did you see Ben’s? It’s _awesome_.”

Sam couldn't help himself: He mouthed the word "awesome" slowly and silently between his lips, mocking her gently. “No," he said, rolling his eyes. "I don’t think I have. I’m sure you’re going to tell me all about it?”

She nodded, her head set in a _damn straight I am_ kind of way.

Sam sighed. Ben was a funny dude; Sam could admit it. The guy could give Dean a run for his money—-well, only because Dean was doing his "low profile" thing these days, but whatever, it totally counted. The first time Sam had ever seen Ben, Ben had been ducking through their classroom doorway like he was in ‘Mission Impossible’ or something--the guy had actually _rolled_ under the lines of desks. He'd been late to class, but their teacher had only called him a dumbass.

Sam had only shaken his head. It was apparently going to be _that_ kind of school.

The poster Jenny dragged him down the hall to see left Sam just as impressed: _SEX_ , read the poster in big, bold, ridiculously red letters. Teeny-tiny print followed: _Now that I have your attention, vote for Ben!_

“Seriously?” Sam said.

Jenny shrugged. “I like it.”

"Sure you do." Sam absentmindedly wondered, how long would it be until one of the teachers came along and took the thing down? Not that it really mattered; the thing had been up long enough. It would be the talk of the school. It was already drawing a crowd; someone was laughing next to him, their voice ecstatic--and wait, Sam knew that voice.

“Dude, that's perfect!" it was saying. Sam only rolled his eyes as a large, heavy arm wrapped itself around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly. Sam looked up at Dean’s teeth flashing, shark-like, in a grin.

“That is so wicked." Dean sounded awed, the idiot.

Sam repeated the word flatly. “Wicked.”

“What?" Dean asked, shaking him with his one-armed grip. "It totally is.”

"You are beyond sad."

“Sam thinks he’s too cool to be impressed,” Jenny piped up. She sounded grateful to have another person destroying Sam’s obviously worthless opinion on the matter, and Sam sent her an irritated look.

Dean turned them both to face her. "Yeah," he said slowly, giving her a searching, almost rude cruising sort of look. Apparently deciding she passed muster, he went on more cheerfully. "He’s cute that way.”

"Dean," Sam said sharply. He felt his cheeks burning--Dean was going to try and set him up with Jenny, he just _knew_ it. "Shut the hell up.”

“You are,” Dean told him, grinning widely.

“Am _not_.”

“Really are,” Dean said. He wiggled his eyebrows at Jenny. “Am I right, or am I right?”

Oh, and that was just _cheating_. That was totally unfair--Dean was an upperclassman, and he, he, well, he was _Dean_. He knew the effect he had on girls.

“Yeah,” she said, ducking her head. “He is.”

Sam was saved from further embarrassment by a loud buzzing noise and Dean's subsequent cursing at it. It was the five-minute warning--Dean gently shook Sam's shoulders, ruffled his hair, and stepped away to allow them to get back to class. Dean took one step away, two, three, and Sam watched him, feeling weirdly dazed. Feeling weirdly bereft.

Then Dean turned around.

Sam felt his own mouth twist, felt his smile grow almost helplessly--Dean’s eyes were being recaptured by the _SEX_ sign. It was just _so Dean_. “No rest for the wicked, huh?” Sam laughed at him, and he made a little shooing motion towards Dean’s classroom. He felt somewhat smug, and he didn’t know why. "Don't waste any time now."

Turning to walk backwards down the corridor, Dean flipped him off.

Sam rolled his eyes and exaggerated the shooing motion, then started turning towards his own classroom. He didn't get far--Dean was pointing towards the sign, mouthing the word "sex" in Sam's direction, his expression full of mock-lasciviousness. He was triumphantly pumping his fists in the air.

“You are _such_ a dork,” Sam told him, laughing despite himself, but Dean, of course, only smirked back at him. Sam shook his head, then waved a happy little good-bye in Dean’s direction.

:::::

Sam snarled down at his classroom assignment, but it was no good. It was just going to be one of those days. He was trying to concentrate on the video that the teacher was making them watch--it was science, all dinosaurs and evolution and natural selection, and it was interesting, damn it. But Ben and Sean, Ben's best friend, refused to shut the hell up about it.

“Virgin lizards,” Sean was spitting gleefully. There were two iguanas mating on the TV screen, and he apparently thought it was the most hilarious thing in the history of ever. “Look at that thing’s tongue!”

He whispered in a way meant to travel the room, and the girls around them giggled. Sam stared at all of them balefully, but to be honest, the boys who played at being Ben and Sean’s minions weren't doing that much better. The teacher, for his part, only looked up from his desk and sighed dramatically. Then he went back to whatever he was doing.

 _One of those schools_ , Sam thought again. He tried not to shake his head miserably.

“Dude,” Sean continued, raising his eyebrows at Ben, “give it up--you _totally_ have a virgin tongue.”

Ben snorted. “In your dreams.”

Sam kept listening, interested in the conversation despite himself. He gave the girls a sneaking look--judging from how they sighed over Ben on a regular basis, the guy probably wasn’t actually lacking in that area.

“You're the freakin’ virgin lips,” Ben went on.

Sean looked heartily offended. “Not me."

“So are,” Ben told him, but obviously losing interest in that line of attack, he turned around, his eyes beginning to scan the crowd behind him. Sam quickly looked away. Moving as much as he did seriously had its downsides--he was _thirteen_ , for crissake. Dean had been making out with girls at _eleven_.

Looking away was totally a bad move.

”Sam!” Ben called gleefully, pointing at him.

Sam looked over at Jenny helplessly.

“You have virgin lips, Sam?” Ben asked, his voice light and easy.

Too light, Sam thought, too easy. And Jenny's smile was widening by the minute; Sam would be getting no help from that quarter. “No,” he said shortly. It didn’t sound convincing, even to him.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Ben continued, nodding wisely. “I’m sure,” and his eyes fell on Jenny as she started soundlessly giggling to herself, “that she’d help you out with that.”

“Oh god,” Jenny said, shaking her head.

“No,” Sam said quickly, looking at her. Then he winced apologetically in her direction--it wasn't that he particularly meant anything by it, but there was _no way_ he was discussing any of this with Ben. It was way too embarrassing.

“Yeah,” Jenny said, her eyes widening. "No way."

They both turned to look at Ben as one, and Ben's narrowed, rapidly-becoming-amused eyes became even more gleeful. Sam abruptly decided to spare Jenny from the virgin-lips debate.

“She totally made out with my brother,” he blurted out. Then he wanted to smash his head against the wall. Ben’s face was lighting up, and Jenny was staring at him, looking totally appalled.

Sam grimaced helplessly. It wasn't what he'd meant to say. He wasn't sure what, exactly, his plan had been, but that--god, he was such an _idiot_. The rumors in this school spread like wildfire. Jenny was going to kill him. Dean was going to _murder_ him. Making out with a thirteen-year-old was not his brother’s thing, no matter how much the realization made Sam squirm with annoyed displeasure--

Sam quickly buried that thought.

Ben was still focused on Sam’s red face, completely unconcerned with Sam's internal crisis. “So," he said the word slowly, drawling it out--and wow, Sam thought the guy was way too amused by the entire situation. It was just not that interesting, and if the Dean-voice in his head disagreed with him, telling him that _yes, Sammy, it totally was,_ then Sam would just tell it to shut the hell up. He was good at that. He had a lot of practice.

“Dean is a total mac--props to your brother, man," Ben went on. "But you’re all virgin lips? Come on, Sammy, you can tell us.”

“It’s Sam,” he responded sharply. Yet another thing to blame Dean for.

“Whatever,” Ben said, waving his hand imperiously. “So, what, you ever made out with anybody?”

“Yes."

“Uh huh,” Ben said, completely not falling for it. “Did you at least get any tongue?”

“Yes,” Sam said again. He said the word staunchly.

Ben obviously didn’t believe him. “Closed-lip kiss?”

“Yes."

The giggling in the room went silent.

Ben's voice was incredulous. “Have you at least _pecked_ a girl?”

And that’s how Sam had his own rumor going through the school.

:::::

Dean’s response, of course, was entirely predictable.

“Shut up,” Sam grumbled preemptively, when he sat beside Dean during their lunch break. Dean hadn’t even opened his mouth yet, but his face was way too excited--and for god's sake, the guy was in an entirely different classroom. It had to be the girls bathroom, Sam thought. That place was a hot-spot for gossip, a channel between the middle and high school kids.

"Virgin," Dean said the word slowly, with something close to obscene relish. "Lips.”

“Oh god,” Sam said. He buried his face in his hands.

“Virgin lips, Sammy.”

“Just shut up.”

“Virgin lips, Sammy?”

“Will you just stop?"

“Virgin lips!”

Sam turned to him. Dean met his eyes unrepentantly.

Sam hauled back and hit him in the shoulder.

“There is totally more where that came from,” Sam warned afterward, ignoring Dean's yelps of protests. He shook his fist out; the hit had been a good one. Dean would have a bruise for _days_. “Do _not_ even start with me.”

“It’s okay,” Dean said mock-soothingly. He rubbed at his arm, giving Sam a reproachful look. “I understand, sexual frustration is just _difficult_ , a strong, growing boy like you—“

Sam punched him again.

“Dude!” Dean yelped again, giving him the puppy eyes. “So not cool.”

All thing being equal, Sam should have punched him again--but it was just unfair, how that expression worked on him. Sam turned away to focus on his lunch instead, one of Dean's "masterpieces." A roast beef sandwich, the meat obviously on sale and about to turn, the crusts cut away from the bread. Lots of lettuce, light on the tomato, mustard, but no mayo. Which was also unfair: The sandwich was prepared just as he liked it.

Being grateful to Dean _sucked_.

“Seriously, dude,” Dean said, his voice softening. He grabbed Sam lightly by the back of the neck, gave him a quick, reassuring squeeze, then rubbed his hand up and down Sam’s back. Sam held still, forcing himself not to shiver. Unfairness #3: His hormones were working overtime. "It's cool."

“Easy for you to say,” Sam grumbled back.

“You’ll see, Sammy.” Dean's voice was low, comforting. Unfairness #4. “You’re cute--shut up, you are--and the girls here are totally checking you out. Especially that Jenny girl, and oh, by the way, thanks for _that rumor_ ,” Dean said scathingly. "I totally _did not_ make out with her, and don’t even pretend that didn’t come from you.”

Sam hummed smugly. Point, Sam. He bit into his sandwich.

“Bastard,” Dean said fondly. “Seriously, though, she’s all yours.”

“Dean,” Sam sighed around his mouthful.

“I wouldn’t mac on your girl,” Dean told him seriously. “Just no, Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “She’s not my girl.”

“Then some other hottie,” Dean said, shrugging. “Whatever." He looked weirdly happy all of a sudden. “When you hit your growth spurt, dude, the ladies are going to be all over you! I’ll have to fight them off with a stick!” He waved an imaginary branch around.

“A stick, Dean,” Sam said, “seriously?” He looked at the girls sitting nearby, who had stopped in their chatter to listen in on their conversation. Sam made an apologetic cuckoo motion in their direction, then he pointed at his brother and shrugged.

“Or not,” Dean said quickly, his voice and expression becoming shifty. “I mean, that’d totally defeat the purpose, right?” He turned to the girls himself. “You guys would hit this, yeah?” He motioned back at Sam.

They laughed, shrugging and nodding, but many of them were eying Dean with appraisal.

Sam was used to that. Dean just had that effect on people. Fuck, Dean _encouraged_ that response, and Sam would have been completely okay with it, if not for the part where it was totally unfairness #5. He wasn't jealous of the attention--jealousy would have been good, jealousy would have been welcome--but he was supposed to be _immune_ to that shit. Dean was his _brother_.

Sam stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and got to his feet.

“Where’re you goin’?” Dean asked, alarm in his voice. He stood up as well.

“Outside,” Sam told him, waving him down. His mouth was full; he sounded like an idiot. “Gotth twenthy mintth leff.”

Immediately, Dean looked comforted. “Basketball?”

“Uh huh,” Sam said, and he swallowed down the rest of the sandwich.

Dean practically bounced along as he followed Sam through the doors of the gym-slash-cafeteria. The sun outside was high and bright, which Sam liked despite the muggy heat it encouraged, and the concrete play area was almost empty. There were a couple of guys milling around, but that was it. “We’re gonna cream those punks,” Dean was saying. “Have you seen them? They _suck_.”

Sam shrugged, not quite certain about that. North Carolina was a basketball state after all.

”They _do_ ,” Dean insisted. “Jake couldn’t make a three-pointer if the hoop came up and begged him for it.”

“That makes no sense--it wouldn’t be a three-pointer that close.”

“Sam,” Dean said, looking heavenward as if for patience.

“It _wouldn’t_ be.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, whatever,” Dean told him, and then motioned at them both. “But seriously, fuck, your aim is winner these days—you’re going to have a bitch of a time when that growth spurt comes, but for now? Dude.”

“It’s a ball, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes. “You’ve had me throwing shit since I was _eight_.”

“Language,” Dean said, but it was an absent-minded correction. “Still. You’re good. And fuck, you can even _dribble_. I did _not_ teach you that.”

“I know,” Sam mocked him. “It’s amazing. There’s something I didn’t learn from my big brother.” He threw his arms up in apparent wonder. “The world is going to end!”

“It seriously is.” Dean eyed Sam up and down as they walked, looking pleased, and Sam felt a flush go over his skin despite himself. Damned hormones. “It’s good,” Dean continued, and then he looked a little awkward. “I mean, you’re good--I mean, at _basketball_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said, cutting him off. He looked at Dean with curiosity, not understanding what Dean’s problem was. “I’m good, you’re good, we’re all good.”

Dean made a choking noise.

“What?” Sam asked, frowning.

Dean shook his head. “Nothing.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“Seriously,” Dean told him, and if Sam wasn’t mistaken, his brother was _blushing_. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Okay,” Sam said slowly, and then he shook his head. “Whatever. “ He paused. “You weirdo.”

Dean snorted. “You have no idea.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, exasperated all over again. “I really do.”

People were beginning to line up by the basketball court. Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Dean stripped down, the both of them being tagged for the “skins” part of the “shirts verses” equation. They had to stop for a moment to call Jenny over—she’d been playing on the swing-sets with some of her chick friends, but she was always up for a good game. She wore a pretty little sports-bra under her T-shirt, which she had no compunction revealing as she took her place on the “skins” team.

“Yeah, you go girl!” Dean’s response was again predictable. He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and then wiggled them in Sam’s direction as if to say _You’re sure you don’t want to hit that?_

Jenny flipped him off. “Play the game, jackass.”

Sam snorted, feeling inexplicably pleased by her treatment of Dean. "Yeah, you jackass.”

Dean grinned at both of them. “Hey now,” he said. “Don’t be haters.”

It was a three-on-three game, and he, Dean, and Jenny were pretty good players. Jenny was better than Sam, which Dean was no doubt going to rib him about, but she was small enough to play a decent point-guard. Sam and the rest of them were still kind of gangly, getting used to their newly growing frames--except for Dean, who'd gone through his growth spurt the year before. Sam couldn’t help but keep looking at him. Dean moved like a predator, completely smooth and in control of his movements.

It was pure torture. There was a small droplet of water making its way down Dean’s neck, along the dip of his collarbone, threatening to fall over Dean’s chest—and _oh my god_ , Sam gulped, maybe a nipple, too. Dean’s body was both white and brown, as Dean didn't bother with making his tan even or anything, and the sweat dripping off his form moved from sun-kissed to pale, shining skin. Sam breathed out hard, suddenly feeling the absurd desire to lick along the contours of Dean’s slick muscles--he jerked his eyes away, looking up at Dean’s eyes guiltily.

It was entirely too late. Dean was staring right back at him.

Sam felt his breathing pick up in a panic—

\--and then he stopped.

Dean wasn’t looking at his face.

Okay then, Sam thought, calming down. Everything was cool. Sam looked down at himself, feeling a bit confused because Dean still hadn't looked away. Sam knew he wasn’t ugly or anything, and he was fit enough--it was kind of hard not to be, what with all the PT Dad gave them every day. Sam couldn’t see anything gross on him either. There was no messed-up deodorant left from this morning’s application, no food or anything smearing his skin.

“Dude,” Sam said finally, feeling the weird urge to cover himself. “What?”

Dean shook his head suddenly. He blinked down at Sam.

“Nothing,” Dean said quickly, shaking his head again. “I mean, I’m totally thinking about pimping you out.”

“What?” Sam asked again, still completely confused and beginning to feel a bit offended.

Dean’s lip twisted in a dirty little grin. “You know,” he said, motioning towards Sam’s mouth. “That problem you’re having.”

“Oh god,” Jenny said. Sam turned to her, catching her as she closed her eyes momentarily. She stood with the basketball in her hands, ready to throw it in from out-of-bounds. “You already heard about that?”

One of the guys on the other team—Jake, Sam thought, from Dean’s class—laughed. “Virgin lips?” he said.

“I hate you,” Sam said, staring at the sky. He wasn’t sure who he was talking to, but the situation was dire enough that he could probably mean the world and still feel at perfect ease.

“Who?” Dean said, his voice indignant. “Me? I didn’t start that.”

“Me either,” Jenny said. She only sounded matter-of-fact. “Oh, and by the way, Dean, not that other thing, either.”

“I know,” Dean told her reassuringly. “I know who to blame for that.”

Sam looked down at Dean again. “I hate you,” he said once more.

“Yeah, baby boy,” Dean snorted. “Sure you do.”

“Hate,” Sam said, emphasizing the word. He spread his arms. “This much, I swear.” He paused. “And call me ‘baby boy’ again, and I’ll cut you.”

Jake laughed. “Sounds like my brother,” he said. “Kid throws knives at me, and when my parents asked about the marks on the floor? He totally blamed the dog.”

Dean nodded wisely. “Kids are fucking menaces.”

“Fuck you,” Sam said easily.

“In your dreams,” Dean retorted, just as calmly.

“Gross,” Sam told him, not bothering to remind himself about the fact that yeah, it wasn’t so gross to him, not so much. “You’re a sick bastard.”

“Takes one to know one,” Dean shot back, but he was grinning at Sam.

The buzzer signifying the end of the lunch period sounded, cutting off the conversation for a good five seconds. Sam held his ears, grimacing in Dean’s direction; Dean just grinned back at him in a way that Sam knew was Dean calling him a little bitch. Sam motioned for Jenny to give him the ball. They’d have to shove it back in the gym on their way back to class.

“I’m serious,” Dean told him, yelling over the sound, “I’m gonna find you a girl.”

The buzzer cut off. Sam rolled his eyes at Dean--his brother had no patience. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Rhonda Peters likes you,” Jenny said idly, jumping into the conversation. “She’s planning on jumping you after school today.”

“See?” Dean said, grinning. “Easy as pie.”

“Oh, shut it,” Sam told him.

“I’m serious,” Dean said. “Hell, I bet you you’ll even get to second base.”

Jenny snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Jake laughed. “With Rhonda? I would.”

Jenny flipped him off. “She’s not like that.”

“Hey,” Dean grinned. “I’d totally be cool with it if she was, you know what I’m saying?”

“Oh gross,” Sam said again. “Just fucking shut your mouth, dude. You’re such a pervert.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re a prude, Sammy,” he said. “A big fat fucking prude.”

Sam reached out, and before he could think about what he was doing, he grabbed Dean’s hand, shoving it against the bare skin of his belly. His brother’s fingers were rough against his stomach, his palm warm and calloused, and Sam felt his heart jump in his chest, felt it beat in a wild, ungainly rhythm. For a second, he was quite sure it was going to escape from his rib cage.

Dean looked down at him, his eyes wide. His fingers twitched against Sam’s skin, but they didn’t otherwise move.

“Uh,” Sam breathed out. He could hear how unsteady his own voice was. “Um. I’m not fat?”

He said it weakly, not quite sure where he was going with the entire holding-Dean’s-hand-against-him thing. Sam looked down. Yep, even now, he still had Dean’s wrist trapped in his grasp, holding his brother’s hand in place.

Dean blinked at him, and he moved his palm over Sam’s stomach in a short, quickly aborted movement. “Uh, yeah,” he said, and his voice was low, somewhat shocky. “Not fat. Right.”

“Okay,” Jenny said finally, her voice dubious. Sam winced at the thought, wondering what it was she saw—fuck, what _Dean_ saw. Jenny continued speaking. “Not fat. Great. ”

Dean’s eyes seemed to brighten. Sam immediately knew what was coming--he recognized that mischievous look in his brother’s eyes--but he didn't move fast enough.

“Fucking jerk,” Sam yelped, fighting his way free. His stomach was stinging like a _bitch_ ; Dean had slapped him hard.

Dean only reached out and dragged him back, tucking Sam under his arm against his sweaty, stinky body. “Yeah, that’s right,” he told Sam, laughing loudly and obnoxiously. “Take the pit. You like the pit. The pit is your _friend_.”

He rubbed his body against Sam’s, all wild grins and obviously aiming for a punch after being so disgusting, and Sam let it happen for a few seconds. Then a few seconds more. Then just a few more. He would hit Dean back, Sam thought eventually, he’d get him back before they went to class, so that he’d have the last word and Dean couldn’t retaliate.

It was a good plan, Sam decided. He squirmed in a really bad attempt to get away, and he tried to ignore just how much he liked the feel of Dean’s skin.

:::::

Dean passed him in the corridor between the bells for fifth and sixth period. “Rhonda Peters,” he said, smacking Sam on the shoulder. He turned around to walk backwards as he moved away from Sam. “I have a bet with her sister—she says it’s totally not going to happen.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Sam told him, turning around and walking backwards himself to keep Dean in view.

Dean gave him a thumbs up sign as he disappeared into his classroom. “I have faith!” he yelled.

:::::::

Three-thirty finally rolled around, and as expected, Rhonda Peters was waiting for him. So were a few other girls—apparently being “virgin lips” was a good advertisement for getting a girlfriend. Sam stared at all of them, feeling a bit shell-shocked. Dean would be all over this situation, he knew--but Sam, well, Sam was fucked up. There was only one person he really felt like kissing, and it wasn’t any girl.

He smiled at Rhonda and the few other girls he didn’t know, and he waved tentatively as he walked away.

“Dude, no,” Dean protested as he approached the Impala. “I’m totally going to owe Leanna a bone for this.”

Sam stared at him. “You bet a hundred dollars?”

“Well,” Dean shrugged. “Okay, not really. She said I could just by her a chocolate bar if I lost—but seriously, Sammy? There are like seven girls just waiting for you over there! Do your big brother proud!”

Sam sighed and reached for the passenger door handle. “Better hit the Food Lion, dude.”

“Fucking chocolate,” Dean groused. “Come on, Sam! Kissing! Girls! What’s not to like?”

“Not going to happen,” Sam told him staunchly, and he shot Dean smug looks as they started to drive down the winding, barren road to the nearest grocery store. “And that should teach you not to bet on my love life, you asshole.”

“Language,” Dean reprimanded him automatically, but he was rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

There weren’t many houses or any other buildings between their school and the Food Lion, just some random, torn-down farmhouses that looked like they were molding from the Carolina humidity. The air smelled green and new, but the overwhelming growing scent had already passed by, destroyed by the heat of the approaching summer. Sam was glad—hayfever in this region was a _bitch_.

Dean had already rolled down their windows, letting the breeze waft over their skin. Sam thought idly about stripping out of his shirt—he was still a bit tacky from their lunch-time pick-up game, and the Food Lion was at least thirty more minutes away—but he contented himself with scratching idly at his chest instead. The heat felt relaxing, made him feel drowsy; he turned suddenly heavy-lidded eyes on Dean next to him.

Dean was looking at him from the corner of his vision. “Always falling asleep,” he said fondly, and he reached out to ruffle Sam’s hair. Sam leaned into it, sighing softly at the familiar comfort. “You’ve done that since you were a baby, you know.”

Sam hummed, closing his eyes for just a moment. “Not a baby anymore,” he murmured.

Dean snorted, and Sam opened his eyes to arch a quizzical eyebrow in his direction. “Yeah, Sam,” Dean told him, seeing the look, “you’re all of thirteen. Real old, there.”

“Fuck you, jerk,” Sam said, yawning uncontrollably. “You’re only seventeen. ‘Snot like you’re ancient or anything.”

“I can drive,” Dean said proudly.

“Dude,” Sam protested, rubbing at his eyes. “You’ve been driving for, what, six years now?”

“Longer,” Dean shrugged at him. “But you know what I mean.”

Sam shifted in place, trying to get more comfortable on the Impala’s seat. It was perfectly broken to his body—had been for years from both him and Dean snuggling against the window, one and then the other as Dad sat in the driver’s seat. The back seat was even more comfy, but Sam liked being next to Dean, liked the look on Dean’s face when he was driving. “Sticky,” he said finally.

Dean looked at question at him.

“The seat,” Sam clarified. “Leather.”

Dean hummed in what seemed like agreement. “Cost of doing business,” he said.

They drove along in silence for a few more minutes, and then Dean finally said, “So, not Rhonda Peters, then?”

Sam shrugged. “Naw.”

“Not your type?”

Sam laughed—Dean didn’t even _know_. “Not at all.”

“Blondes, brunettes, or red-heads?” Dean asked, quirking a grin in Sam’s direction.

What the hell, Sam thought. “I like brown hair. You know, with the blonde streaks.”

“Dyed hair?” Dean asked. “Or natural?”

Sam stared at him, frowning. “Like you can even tell.”

“I _can_ ,” Dean insisted. Then after a moment, “Okay, I’m totally lying. I can’t tell.”

“Knew it.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Sore loser.”

Dean snorted. “Never got used to it, what can I say?” He laughed obnoxiously, obviously trying to get a rise out of Sam, but Sam only smiled back at him. He couldn’t help himself; Dean just looked so damned happy. Sam reached out, and he flicked Dean lightly on the shoulder.

“Moron,” Sam told him affectionately.

“Dude, I’m brilliant,” Dean told him idly, his attention focused on the road as he hit the button for the turning signal. Sam thought that was funny; there was nobody at the intersection with them. “But enough about me,” Dean said as he drove down the new road. “So, brunettes.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. It was close enough.

“Blue eyes, brown eyes, or—what, green eyes? Are there any other colors?”

“God,” Sam said, laughing lowly. “You’re such a dork.”

“What?” Dean asked, sounding a little offended.

“Are we really doing this?” Sam asked him. “What’re you gonna do next, Dean? Pull out a Cosmo and find out my perfect man?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam.”

“Thought so.”

“Dude,” Dean told him, and he reached over to pinch Sam’s arm lightly. “Don’t be an ass. I’m just curious. You had all those options back there—and come on, man, some of them were total babes.”

“Total babes?” Sam mimicked, and laughed to himself. “Could you be any more of a cliché?”

“Oh, shut it.” Then after a moment, “I’m serious, Sam. I’m gonna find you a girl. You totally deserve a babe.”

Sam sighed again. Dean was right, he knew, and it wasn’t like Sam had anything against finding a girlfriend. He just wasn’t sure he wanted one right _then_. He’d give it time, Sam told himself. This stupid crush on his brother had to pass sooner or later. It hadn’t for the past two years, but whatever, Sam could be patient.

“Green eyes,” Sam said eventually.

“What?”

“You asked—you know,” Sam waved a hand lightly around his head. “What color.”

“Like one of those Cuban babes?” Dean asked him. “Have you seen them? Dude, seriously, tan skin, long brown hair, and fucking blue or green eyes. It’s fucking fantastic.” He made a quick sweeping motion with his right hand. “And the bodies on them!”

Sam shrugged noncommittally.

“No?” Dean asked him. “White chicks, then?”

Sam waved his hand in the air again. “I’m easy,” he said.

“Whatever?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. But after a moment, he couldn’t help himself. He stared out of the corner of his eye, looking at the upturned bent of his brother’s nose. “But I like freckles.”

Dean laughed. “Well, okay then. For a second, I was thinking you’re like Narcissus or something—shut up, Sam, I totally read," and Sam laughed, because he _was_ about to rib him for the name, “what with the brown hair and green eyes.” Dean frowned. “Though your eyes are more hazel.”

“Are they?” Sam asked, not really caring. He wasn’t talking about his own eyes, after all. “Bright, bright green,” he said after a moment. “And freckles.”

“And brown hair,” Dean murmured.

They drove in yet more silence after that, but the feeling was still easy, still comfortable. Sam was waking up somewhat, drifting peacefully out of his car-induced coma, but his mind continued to float around as they drove. It didn’t seem so bad, for those few minutes, that he was using his brother as a template for his perfect “woman.” Didn’t feel so awful that he was letting Dean know.

“Kind of like me, huh?” Dean said softly, and Sam was still so comfortable that he said, “Yeah,” without thinking about it.

The silence felt a lot more charged after that.

Dean was looking at him out of the corner of his eyes; Sam could see that in his own peripheral vision. He sucked in a breath sharply, trying to keep it as unnoticeable as he could, but his heart was pounding at triple-speed and he wasn’t sure if he could manage it.

“I mean,” Dean said, and he laughed uncomfortably. It hurt Sam to hear how pained Dean’s voice suddenly sounded. “Not like me, I mean, not _me_.” Dean let out a choked breath. “Just my features, that sort of thing.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth.

“Right?” Dean said a little desperately.

“Uh,” Sam said. It was stupid, so stupid, but he didn’t want to deny it, didn’t want to lie about what and who he really wanted. It was so much better, keeping it in silence—couldn’t Dean just let it go?

“Sammy?”

Apparently not.

Sam took a deep breath, and he closed his eyes. He gave himself a count of ten, and then he looked at his brother. “Dean,” he said slowly, still wanting to give Dean one last chance to back out, “this is one of those times where you shouldn’t ask if you don’t want to know.”

Dean’s hands were clenched tight on the steering wheel. He was apparently doing his own ten-count, because it took him a while to speak. Sam gripped his knees as he waited, hoping against hope while at the same time calling himself six billion types of idiot, because seriously—who really got to end up with their own brother?

God, he was a moron.

“Sam,” Dean said finally, and he was biting his lip as he turned to meet Sam’s eyes. “I’m asking.”

“You are?” Sam said, startled despite himself. “Really?”

“God,” Dean groaned. “I’m, come _on_ , Sam, you’re killing me here. _Yes_ , I’m _asking_.”

Sam coughed, or laughed—he wasn’t exactly sure. “Yeah, Dean,” he said, blurting it out, and he winced because he sounded like such a scared little kid, and _wow_ , that wasn’t what he was going for there, talk about bad timing. “Just like you. Exactly like you.” He paused, and then he made himself say it. “Actually, _you_.”

Dean seemed to be holding his breath. “Me.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and his voice was small, so small. “You.”

“Me.”

It made Sam a little angry, how Dean kept repeating himself. “Yeah, you, okay?” he said, and if his voice went a little harsh, well, who could blame him. “I’m a freak, okay? I’m your little freak of a brother, and I want to fucking kiss you, and _god_ , I am going to shut up right now.”

“Language,” Dean said, still looking shocked, but before Sam could turn around and kick him for it, Dean held up a hand. “Sorry, sorry, habit.”

“Seriously not a good time.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah. I get that.”

“Good.”

Dean blew out a breath. “I am,” he said finally, and then he seemed to change his mind, shaking his head a little. “Me, too.”

Sam looked over at him. “You, too?”

Dean grunted. “Yeah.”

Sam couldn’t make out his features—well, he _could_ , but he couldn’t be reading them right, he just _couldn’t_ be. “What do you mean, you, too?” he demanded.

“What?” Dean said, starting to frown himself. “Did I stutter?”

“Dean!” Sam almost shouted, but he kept his voice down at the very last second. “You gotta be clear here!”

“I’m, what,” Dean said, and okay, the Impala was jerking around a little bit, maybe they shouldn’t be having this conversation on the road, Sam thought a bit hysterically. “I like you too, okay? _God_.”

“Like, _like_ like?” Sam demanded again.

“For fuck’s sake, Sam!” Dean shouted back. “Yes, _like_ like. You think I’d be all worked up about the normal sort of like? _Jesus_.”

“Let me get this straight,” Sam said, trying to keep his voice steady, but yeah, that was totally a lost cause; his voice was cracking all over the place and it just wasn’t fucking _fair_. “You like _like_ me, and I like _like_ you?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding his head, and then he shook it. “I mean, I think so?”

That was it. Sam couldn’t take it anymore.

“Pull over the car,” he demanded.

“What?” Dean looked over at him, his eyes wide.

“Pull over the damned car, Dean!”

Dean did so with a screech of tires, for once not at all careful with his baby. Sam was undoing his seat belt, his hands jerky and not cooperative; it took him three times to get the damned buckle off. His mind was being an absolute _bitch_ , with thoughts of Dad and their teachers and Jenny and Jake looking at them with horrified eyes, but Sam didn’t care. He wrestled the damn belt off and with an easy kick of his legs—still so short, he thought, god _damn_ it—he was on Dean’s lap.

Dean was staring up at him, his hands in the air above Sam’s knees, then above Sam’s shoulders, flittering around as if he didn’t know quite where to put them. His eyes were huge, large green iris and tiny pin-pricks of pupil—and while that was _not_ flattering, Sam knew _exactly_ how he felt.

Sam took a deep breath.

He put his hands on Dean’s shoulders.

“Guess you’re going to win that bet after all,” Sam said, and then he kissed Dean’s lips.

:::::::

There were hours of making out after that. Hours of lips and teeth and tongue, and Sam wasn’t going to lie—Dean had to teach him how to kiss, because Sam was totally predisposed to slobbering. But it was good, and it was _them_ , and Sam wasn’t going to let it go in his lifetime, not for fucking _ever_.

Later on Dean spent a couple of hours freaking out, and once Sam had him calmed down, it was apparently _Sam’s_ turn to freak the fuck out, and he was still freaking out by the time Dad got home from whatever errand he had run out to do. He and Dean slept in their room together, sharing the one damned bed they had in the house, the both of them on opposite sides and completely not touching. Dean didn’t say a word the entire time, and Sam let himself hyperventilate into sleep.

When they woke up, Dean was still there, looking at Sam a little fearfully.

“Did I completely fuck this up?” Dean whispered.

“Dean,” Sam said, and he rolled closer to his older brother. He reached out and dragged Dean against him—or tried to, but he was the smaller one after all. He ended up mostly on Dean’s chest, looking down into Dean’s eyes. “Seriously? Shut the fuck up.”

Then there was more making out.

When Sam walked down the school corridors later that day, his nose still in a book and Jenny eventually by his side, he found himself looking up at where the ”SEX” poster had been. Like he suspected, the teachers had taken it down. Sam found himself smirking at it all the same.

Ben came up beside him, and he looked up at the spot. “Man, that’s harsh,” he said.

“Too bad,” Sam said lightly.

Ben shot him a sidelong glance. “Yeah,” he said, “it is. But there’s always the next scandal—speaking of which, you got one of them girls to get rid of that ‘virgin lips’ problem for you? I heard there was quite a line.”

Sam found himself sniggering, even though a ridiculous blush was creeping over his features; he could feel the hot flush of it on his face. He wasn’t surprised when an arm suddenly wrapped itself around his shoulders--it was familiar with its strength and scent of leather, and he knew who it belonged to instinctively. Sam looked up, and he smiled up into Dean’s grinning face.

“Naw,” Dean told Ben, and he shook Sam gently. “Kid didn’t go kissing any girls.”

Sam laughed, and he wasn’t afraid to admit that he was completely out of his mind with giddiness. “Got a chocolate bar, though,” he said, and Dean’s smile grew as he shook Sam again.


	2. Chapter 2

NOW

 

Dean’s face was dirty when he walked in the door, smudged with grit and grease, but his smile was as bright as the sunlight outside when he saw that Sam was waiting for him. Sam stared at back at him, drinking him in, determined to remember each and every detail in that instance, from the hard lines of Dean’s jaw to the rough stubble of Dean’s cheeks to the teasing welcome in Dean’s eyes. He swallowed tightly, and he thought to himself, _Yes, this. This is what I’ll remember no matter what the evening brings._

Sam moved forward without thinking, and then he was in Dean’s arms. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Dean sing-songed as he tilted his face up for a kiss, and Sam’s eyes smarted, remembering the days when Dean was the bigger one, when Dean was larger than life and twice as grand. But Dean’s hands on his face were as tender as ever, and that was the detail which mattered.

“Hey, you,” Sam said after their lips parted, and he nudged at Dean’s nose with his own. “How was work?”

“Icky,” Dean said, and then he laughed at the expression on Sam’s face. “God, you’re gonna be easy till the day you die, aren’t you?”

Sam rolled his eyes, and for a moment, it was as if it was any other day.

Dean watched him, a couple seconds of quiet, careful study, but whatever he saw in Sam’s face only caused him to arch an eyebrow. He knew not to push. Sam’s latest days were filled with fury, with his own explosions, and Dean was being courteous, was trying to give Sam space. Sam appreciated it even as it pained him; it wasn’t Dean’s distance that he needed.

“Dad back yet?” Dean said finally, but he shook his head before Sam could answer. “No, nevermind, he wouldn’t be.”

Sam’s face had always been transparent to his brother. 

“No,” Sam answered anyway. “But I’m making dinner.”

“What?” Dean asked him, frowning. “Seriously?”

“Shut the hell up,” Sam told him, and he couldn’t help but grin at his brother’s incredulous face. “Seriously. And go get showered--” he leaned in close, smiling lazily as Dean’s eyes grew dark and luminous, thin rings of green around black pupils. “—‘cause I want to fuck you before Dad gets back.” 

Dean laughed out loud and ran for the bathroom.

Sam didn’t chase him. He only watched Dean go, and he tried not to fiddle with the ticket in his back pocket.

 

:::::::

 

THEN

 

Fifteen years old.

“Oh, come _on_ , Sammy,” Dean said. He kept his voice low so that the teachers chaperoning them couldn’t overhear he and Sam’s whispered conversation. “Don’t go making it _too_ easy or somethin’.”

Sam glanced around—no one was paying attention—and let his eyes focus once more on the security guard at the end of the foyer. There were two of them near the museum’s entrance, but that one, the one he had pointed out to Dean—that one was _pretty_. 

“Just admit it, Dean,” Sam said, sniggering under his breath. “He’s way out of your league.”

It wasn’t true, as anyone with eyes could see that _nobody_ was out of his brother’s league, but the very situation itself was promising. Dean would have to refuse for sensible reasons—he would _have_ to, god, not even Dean could be _that_ obnoxious--and Sam would be able to rib him over it for _weeks_.

“Do you _want_ to see me get decked or something?” Dean eyed the guard out of the corner of his eye, but his lip was twitching. 

“Yeah,” Sam said slowly, keeping his voice even as he tried to keep his own mirth under control. “He _is_ kind of big for you.”

“Oh, fuck you, Sam--I can’t just go over there an kiss him outta the blue!” 

His voice was kind of loud that time around, and Sam widened his eyes at his older brother in a quick signal of _shut up, you dummy_. Dean rolled his eyes in response, but he pressed his lips together, wiggling his head back and forth a little in a motion that said _okay, okay, I’m shutting up, see?_

“It was your stupid idea,” Sam told him after a moment. He tried to say the words without moving his mouth very much; it probably wasn’t working out for him pretty well, but Dean could still understand him. “If you want to welch, just go right ahead—“

“I am _not_ welching,” Dean whispered furiously, and Sam sniggered again. Dean’s eyes on him became aggrieved. “I’m _not_.”

“Sure looks like it from here,” Sam said.

“Dude, this is—you’re such a _brat_. Talk about escalation, buddy.”

“Dean,” Sam told him, and wow, that was totally unfair. “You made me kiss the _head cheerleader_. I’m lucky her boyfriend didn’t try to beat me up or something!”

“You could totally have taken him,” Dean said dismissively, but Sam could hear the intent under the words: _And I would never have let him touch you._

“Still,” Sam said, refusing to back down.

Fair was fair--Sam was going to see Dean kiss some other person for _once_ , the damned hypocrite. He’d lived with Dean’s bargain for the last four months: They could have sex, _goddamned finally_ , as long as Sam did the “normal” thing and dated other girls (or guys, Dean wasn’t picky) as well. Dean was determined that Sam’s sexual experiences wouldn’t include only those from ‘his own fucking brother,’ and while Sam was usually able to out-stubborn Dean, there were some points on which Dean remained absolutely immovable.

Sam had once made the mistake of getting nasty about it. He’d said something along the lines of Dean pimping him out—and for fuck’s sake, he remembers when that line had been a _joke_ —and all he’d ended up with was a completely traumatized Dean and no sex for a _month_. He'd finally needed to hold his brother down and pretty much fuck himself on Dean’s dick before the idiot finally realized that, no, Sam did _not_ actually consider himself to be an abuse victim, thank you very much.

Dean hadn’t so much as touched another person since getting together with Sam. He flirted, sure—oh, how he flirted, and god knew what Dad thought about that, but whatever, Dad could stay confused for all Sam cared—but he was staying _faithful_.

It was all completely _unfair_.

Dean was still looking at the security guard, but he finally swung his face around to stare at the group of students and teachers around them. “At least let me wait until everyone clears out,” he finally said.

“Dude,” Sam said reproachfully. “You _suck_ at truth or dare. _Suck_.”

“Sam,” Dean responded, his voice filled with as much reprimand as Sam’s own. “I am the _king_ of truth or dare. Recognize, bitch.”

“You’re not supposed to be able to _negotiate_ your dare,” Sam hissed at him.

“A king,” Dean said again, pointing a long finger in Sam’s face.

“God, you’re a moron,” Sam said, and he might have ground his teeth together, not that he was letting Dean know about that. He finally relented. “Fine, you can do it when everybody leaves.” 

It wasn’t exactly a tour they were on, and in a couple of seconds they’d be let loose in the Drumheller Museum; he and Dean planned to ditch soon after that. Well, not exactly—Sam planned to go see a couple of exhibits, but Dean totally didn’t know that yet.

“So,” Dean said, “a kiss?”

“With tongue,” Sam told him stanchly. “Lots of it.”

“Dude, I’m totally going to get decked.” Dean shook his head, but he started making his way forward towards the guard. Sam walked next to him; he was going to make sure this happened, damn it. “And if I do it? What do I get?”

“That satisfaction of winning,” Sam said flatly.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Dean whined. “You’ve got to sweeten the pot more than _that_.”

Sam thought about it, and then he grinned fiercely. He let his eyes travel up and down Dean’s body, and he felt his smile grow even wider, showing all his teeth, as Dean shivered beneath his gaze. “I’ll take you up to the dinosaur exhibit—“

“Weak,” Dean interrupted, his frown coming back.

“—wait for it,” Sam told him, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take you up to the T-Rex,” and yeah, he totally knew his brother’s weaknesses, Dean was lighting up, “and I’ll give you the blowjob of your _life_ while you hold on to it.”

Dean snorted. “Can’t touch the damned thing—you can’t promise that.”

“Whatever,” Sam said. “We can hide in that little alcove between the T-Rex and the Triceratops, and I’ll blow you there.”

Dean moved his head back and forth in an _I’ll think about it_ motion, but Sam knew he was sold on the idea. “Okay, Sammy,” Dean said finally, cutting his teeth on his own shark’s grin, “you have got yourself a deal.”

Sam laughed. “So predictable.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“It saddens me, it really does.”

“Can it, butt-boy,” Dean said, and he shoved at Sam’s shoulder. The push was hard enough that Sam had to take a couple of steps back. Sam kicked at him in response—Dean’s shin was _totally_ fair game. “Bastard,” Dean yelped as Sam’s foot connected.

“Now who’s the butt-boy?” Sam asked smugly.

“You will _always_ be the butt-boy,” Dean said, and _oh_ , he was _asking_ for it. Sam was going to give it to him at the first available opportunity. 

“I’m just going to pretend like I haven’t ever fucked you,” Sam said, nodding his head slowly. “And that you didn’t like it.”

“Sammy!” Dean said, glancing around them.

“Don’t get all shy now, Dean.”

Dean grumbled under his breath. Sam caught the words _damned little brother_ and _fucking sophomore_ and _in over his head_ and he couldn’t help but shove Dean back a little. 

“What was that?” Sam asked him innocently when Dean glared.

“You know those days when you were smaller than me?” Dean snarled, but his eyes were flashing with amusement. “You remember them? Because I do, and you know what? I _miss_ them.”

“Poor baby,” Sam said. “I feel for you, I really do.” He drew himself up to his full height—6’2” for the win! And growing every day!—and stretched his arms above his head for good measure. “I’m sorry, were you saying something?” he added, smirking down into Dean’s grimly upturned face. “Because I can’t hear you from way up here.”

“Brat,” Dean said.

“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated himself, “still can’t hear you! This area is for the tall people--midgets need to go stand over there.” He flicked his fingers across the foyer towards the other set of turnstiles, and to his great pleasure and fortune, saw a bunch of first-graders filing through the area. “See, Dean? There are your people.”

Dean looked over and saw the kids, and then he looked back at Sam and rolled his eyes. “I brought this on myself,” he nodded. “I see that now.”

“Damn straight.”

“Next time I have to take care of a kid, I’m totally not feeding it,” Dean said darkly, looking up at Sam. “There will be no Lucky Charms.”

“What a cruel world,” Sam mourned.

“And there will be lots of spankings.”

“Promises, promises,” Sam said, and then he laughed.

They scrapped for a little while after that, a hit from Sam to Dean’s shoulder good-naturedly followed by Dean punching him back. And then Sam punching him back. And then Dean hitting him again. Then they were snapping their fists at each other surreptitiously, one-two one-two _one-two_ , quick hidden motions that they tried to cover with laughter. It didn’t work out too well; each new hit brought them to new depths of hilarity and incredulity until one of the teachers finally turned around and snapped, “Boys!”

He and Dean stopped immediately. They turned to the chaperone with too-innocent impressions.

“What?” Sam asked finally.

“We weren’t doing anything,” Dean continued. 

Sam snorted under his breath.

“We _weren’t_ ,” Dean insisted, and he gave Sam a dirty look.

“Behave yourselves,” the teacher said shortly. It wasn’t anything that Dad would have taken from either of them, but she studiously ignored them both after a while.

They stared at each other.

“Punk,” Sam said lowly, after a moment.

“Bitch,” Dean whispered back.

“Jerk,” Sam said.

“Brat,” Dean said.

They looked at each other again and then sniggered simultaneously.

Dean shrugged his left shoulder and looked at Sam aggrievedly. “Motherfucker,” he whispered, “I think you _broke_ my arm.”

“Hah,” Sam told him.

“I’m serious.”

“No, you aren’t,” Sam said.

“Naw, I’m not.”

The group all at once seemed to be moving. Sam moved closer to Dean while everybody waffled towards the entrance, group tickets having been bought at some point and the chaperons bringing them closer to the turnstiles. Sam smiled briefly at one of the teachers leading them forward; she smiled back impersonally. He nor Dean had bothered with getting to know anybody this time around.

“I love Canada,” Dean said, out of the blue. He smiled his own cheesy little grin towards a chaperon as he took their tickets.

“Huh?”

“You know, free,” he motioned towards the customer counter. “For kids.”

“At school.”

“Your tax dollars at work.”

“Oh, shut it,” Sam rolled his eyes, thankful that passports weren’t required to cross the border, and they both walked into the museum.

Dean loitered in the foyer behind the entrance gates, dropping down to the floor as he pretended to tie his shoe. Sam walked over to the water fountains and took a long drink, watching his brother as Dean watched the security guard surreptitiously. He thought about it for a moment: He imagined Dean striding up to the man, his usual cocky “I own the world” ridiculous walk, saw the man either frown down at him—or worse, smile back.

Oh, _hell_ no.

Sam let the water-fountain spigot go, and he walked quickly over to Dean. “I take it back,” he said softly. He would just have to lose this round of truth or dare.

Dean looked up at him; he was on his second shoe, having untied it before slowly retying it.

“Yeah?” he asked, a small smile playing over his lips.

Sam wanted to kiss him—he looked around instead. Still too many people.

“Yeah,” he said. 

Dean stood up, and grabbed him one-armed, a quick, fierce hug. “Good.”

Then he thought about it. “No blowjob?” he asked mournfully.

Sam pretended to consider it.

“No,” he said.

“Oh come on,” Dean wheedled. “It’s not like _I’m_ the one who punked out.”

“Do you want me to hit you again?”

“Give it to me, baby,” Dean laughed at him.

“Dean!” 

Dean looked at him sidelong, his small smile transmuting to something else, something that made Sam’s body tighten in response. All at once Sam could feel every inch of Dean’s body pressed up against his, the hard line of Dean’s chest and tapering hips, the strength of Dean’s arm around his shoulder. God, the _smell_ of him, rich and earthy and like Christmas and Thanksgiving wrapped up together and spread out on a platter. Sam wanted to eat his brother _alive_ ; he looked away, murmuring, “Bastard.”

Dean shifted against him, leaning even closer and brushing his mouth over Sam’s ear. “I’ll blow you,” he said lowly, and Sam shivered.

“You like that?” Dean asked quietly, not letting him go.

“Oh god,” Sam moaned escaping his lips despite his best efforts. “Just--shut up, Dean. Shut your goddamned pretty mouth.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughed softly, letting the air from the movement brush over Sam’s neck. “You like that.” Then he stepped back, looking up at the ceiling innocently. “Company,” he sing-songed, not looking Sam’s way.

One of the teachers had returned, but she only raised her eyebrows at them before scurrying off to do whatever it was she was doing. Sam looked at Dean and sighed. “I guess we should go on, then.”

Dean was already moving forward. “Look,” he said brightly, and he turned to grin wickedly over his shoulder back at Sam. “Dark spot.”

The area directly in front of them was a long, looping tunnel, the floor transparent with illuminated creatures floating in its depths. Large, crab-like looking things, deep blues and oranges and purples; the color flickered over Dean’s features as Sam followed him inside and through the exhibit, turning his brother’s features otherworldly in the dim light. The walls, too, were covered with the animals—Sam turned to the wall and read that they were small, multi- and uni-celled beings magnified thousands of times their size.

“Awesome,” Dean whispered, coming up beside him. Sam felt Dean’s fingers brush lightly against his own; he ran his index finger over Dean’s palm in response.

“And you call me a dork,” Sam said, keeping his voice low.

Dean’s hand was suddenly squeezing his ass. “Uh huh,” he said, laughter under his breath, but before Sam could panic and look around them, Dean was gone, striding down through the corridor.

The next series of rooms was a bit more conventional, long panels of fossil-filled stone lining the walls, but the place was laid out like a warren, rooms jutting out haphazardly and everywhere. Sam followed Dean from exhibit to exhibit, unabashedly geeking out when he felt like it, tapping his foot with impatience whenever it was Dean’s turn.

Then Dean was drawing him back into one of the rooms, the main space of it filled with a huge, glowing fish-tank. The corners of the room were dark even to Sam’s vision, the glare of the tank blindingly distracting, and Sam didn’t let himself worry when Dean drew him close. He closed his eyes as Dean’s mouth met his, as Dean tasted him with a warm slide of tongue in his mouth.

Then Dean’s hands were on his body, trailing slowly up his back and around his rib cage, pressing down firmly as Dean explored his chest. Sam leaned into the touch and licked back with his own tongue, small little licks designed to drive Dean crazy, and they did, Dean pressing him against the wall as he became more frantic.

“God, Sammy,” Dean whispered against his mouth.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam said back, catching his breath, and he thought wistfully that it wasn’t fair that they weren’t allowed to get caught. 

“Okay, kiddo?” Dean asked him as he drew away, seeing the expression on Sam’s face. He ran his fingers lightly over Sam’s cheekbone, over his jaw, and as Sam watched, Dean’s brows began to twist with concern.

“Yeah,” Sam forestalled him, shaking his head. He didn’t want to ruin the moment; they were able to take so few of them. “It’s nothing.”

Dean stared into his eyes for a long minute. “Okay,” he said quietly. “If you say so.” He didn’t press any further, but only grabbed Sam’s hand and dragged him further into the museum.

They continued on like that, rushing around the museum and dragging each other into dark alcoves and sequestered rooms, hiding beneath looming exhibits as they took the other’s breath away. Sam soon lost his moodiness, cheered back into happiness by Dean’s hands on his body, Dean’s mouth on his own, Dean laughing and whispering fevered, desperate words against his skin. Dean licked along Sam’s neck, bruising him more deeply with each new encounter, and Sam pressed against the growing mark as they walked down the halls.

Dean finally stopped in front of a door. There was a stretch of painted plywood along the wall, decorated only with museum signs that announced something new! And exciting! was coming soon. Sam rolled his eyes as Dean smirked down at the lock on the door; he wasn’t at all surprised when Dean levered his lock-pick set out of his leather jacket.

“Dude,” Sam whispered, pointing to the sign on the door. “Construction workers only.”

Dean knelt down and pressed his ear against it. “I don’t hear anything.” He looked at Sam. “You hear anything?”

Sam listened, decided he didn’t. “They probably only work at night. The noise.”

Dean wiggled his eyebrows as he shoved one pick in his mouth and another one into the lock. “Lucky us,” he murmured around the piece of metal in his teeth.

Sam rolled his eyes, but he turned around, playing the look-out.

Dean was laughing softly, his face flushed with triumph, when he finally dragged Sam through the door. The place was poorly-lit, the temporary lighting unplugged; Sam could see the fixtures through the far-away window in the corner of the room. There was enough sunlight to see by, however, and Sam followed Dean into the secluded space, carefully picking his way over the piled material and haphazardly placed trash. The site could use a good sweeping, he thought, but then he was being pushed against a concrete block wall. He shivered at both the chill of the stone at his back, and at Dean’s warm hands pushing under his shirt.

“Blowjob,” Dean whispered against his mouth, and they were kissing again.

Dean’s hands were on his belt, quick and steady and sure, and Sam let his stance spread wider, allowing his thighs to open up and accept Dean’s body pressing against his own. He rested his hands lightly on the small of Dean’s back, and he let himself drown in the feel of Dean’s fingers, in the smell of his breath, in the unabashedly affectionate looks Dean gave him every time he made a small, desperate, _needy_ sound in the back of his throat.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean told him, reaching into his pants and drawing out his cock. “I’ve got you.”

Then Dean was on his knees— _Dean_ , his older brother, his caretaker, his _world_ —and Sam startled himself with his own loud moan. He pressed his fist against his mouth, biting his teeth into the soft flesh; he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Dean’s pink, wicked tongue. Dean smiled up at him, licking his lips, and then his mouth was on Sam’s dick and _god_ , it was _amazing_.

Dean didn’t bother deep-throating him; he knew what Sam liked. Dean licked along the length of him, small, slow sucks to each side of his cock, pressing his lips open-mouthed against it. Sam murmured again at the sweet burn, and then his fingers were in Dean’s short, spiky hair, and he was making an idiot of himself and couldn’t particularly bring himself to care. 

“Love this,” Sam said, murmuring distractedly. Dean’s green eyes never looked away, and Sam let him see—he should have felt self-conscious, but Dean had only ever made him feel safe. “ _God_ ,” Sam told him again, feeling his heart clench in his chest. “You’re perfect, how did I get this, how did I get _you_ , god Dean, I love--”

Dean only hummed against him in response, his smile teasing as he finally swallowed down Sam’s dick.

Sam’s head thunked back into the wall behind him. The concrete totally should have hurt; it didn’t.

Dean sucked on his head, his hand coming up to jack Sam slowly. His tongue circled around Sam’s cock and pressed against the underside, and Sam could feel his legs trembling against the assault--he looked back down at Dean, wanting to watch. Dean pet him soothingly on the thigh with his one free hand, and the tenderness in the gesture made Sam’s heart tear up all over again.

“I mean it,” Sam whispered down to him, not caring if Dean teased him later. “I fucking love you.”

Dean closed his eyes with a long, slow blink, looking away from Sam for only a moment, and Sam knew from the motion that his brother was saying it back.

It didn’t take long—it never did when Dean was so determined—before Sam felt his trembling increase, felt orgasm looming over him and then pushing him over the edge, and he closed his hands around Dean’s shoulders, needing the support, needing something to hold on to. Dean only let him, sucking on his cock gently as Sam fucked his mouth with jerky, uncontrollable movements.

Then Dean was up on his feet, pressing his heavy, muscled weight all along Sam’s body, his teeth in Sam’s neck and his cock hard at Sam’s hip. He was thrusting mindlessly, groaning around the flesh in his mouth, and Sam reached up and tilted Dean’s face back, taking his brother’s lips in a sloppy, wet kiss. He cradled Dean’s face with one hand, wiping his thumb over and over across the line of his cheek, and he grasped Dean’s dick hard in his other. 

Dean groaned into his mouth, fucked his tongue between Sam’s lips, and then he spilled between them.

“Gonna time you,” Sam said without thinking, and Dean pinched him hard in the side. Sam laughed but didn’t let him go. He continued to kiss Dean as Dean slowly came down, as they both did.

“Says the girl,” Dean said finally, drawing away. He rested his forehead against Sam’s for a long moment, and then he reached up, placing a soft kiss between Sam’s brows. “Emo, emo, emo.”

Sam laughed and kissed him again, a quick press of lips. “Tool,” he said.

 

:::::

 

NOW

 

Sam was seventeen years old. He had a duffel bag on the floor by his feet, a bus ticket in the back of his jeans, and on the table, a stack of papers with the Stanford logo emblazoned across each and every page.

The house rushed with the sound of Dean’s shower.

Dean would be out soon. Half-dressed and smiling wickedly, he would make his way to the kitchen, and then his eyes would fall on the college package. His smile would falter. It would fall away completely. But when he eventually looked back up at Sam, his eyes would fill with a pride that shone even more brightly than the wetness of his tears.

“You did it,” he murmured. He reached out and ran a hand over the top page, because he was a tactile man, and he wanted to feel his reality especially when it shifted so radically around him. “My Sammy, off to college.”

He said, “You deserve it.”

He said, “I’ve always wanted the best for you.”

Sam told him, “I never want to leave you,” and they knew that though the statement was true, it would never be enough. Sam reached for Dean, and Dean went to Sam, and they made love. Though they wished otherwise, it would very likely be for the last time.

They made promises that neither one of them could keep.

Sam opened his eyes; Dean was still in the shower. Their father was still on the road--probably on his way home, but maybe not. Sam had the papers in his hand, the ones saying he had a full ride and that his future was awaiting him, and the table was silently waiting for him to place them down.

Maybe, Sam thought to himself, it would be better than that. Maybe Dean would come with him. Maybe they could live together, and nobody would know they were related--Sam would have his lover and brother with him, and they would be able to make friends again for the first time in long years. Maybe they wouldn’t have to hide or live their old isolated little lives. Maybe they could each have something _more_ than hunting.

Maybe.

Sam smiled sadly as Dean walked into the kitchen.

Hope, he told himself, always springs eternal.


End file.
